09: The shadow

March 20, 2020

Tokyo, Japan.

"It's quite normal to be afraid of the dark, especially as a child. There are endless reasons for it, varying according to each individual's personality and their way of perceiving the world. But ultimately, it all comes down to a primitive instinct to stay alive. Complete darkness is overwhelming—when someone relies on their sight first and foremost, they find nothing but a suffocating sense of disorientation. The proportions of a room become distorted; even if one knows a place from corner to corner, there's no way to position oneself in the midst of darkness, and eventually, we succumb to the terror of what might happen while we are at our most vulnerable.

There is a small percentage of people who do not experience this: the blind.

Lacking visual receptors, either completely or partially, they develop other senses as a means of survival, helping them create an imaginary spatial awareness through what we call echolocation. A mystery of nature, an evolution, a response from our most human side to continue living. But it's nothing truly surprising—nature has its way of embellishing things. However, even natural laws have a limit to what they can and cannot do. Crossing that limit would lead us to a physical paradox that would consume us until we self-destruct and reduce ourselves to nothingness."

Junseo had been contemplating so many things since then; he no longer remembered how many PDFs on genetic modification he had consumed, yet he still hadn't found what he was looking for. He found no answers to his curiosity, only more useless questions that left him with a headache. He was fed up. He didn't want to read anymore, especially when his eyes burned from the bright light of his phone. He was fed up, so he closed his eyes and shifted, trying to sleep.

Ever since he had abandoned the mission and faked his death for the South Korean government, he had been too busy with many things to care about his physical appearance. He didn't care in the slightest. His hair had grown excessively, and for some reason, the roots had begun to lighten into brownish tones. Maybe he had lost some muscle mass—his collarbones and ribs showed effortlessly with every slight movement he made. He hadn't trimmed his facial hair in a month, his skin was somewhat dry, and he looked more like a beggar than a person. But there was a perfectly understandable explanation for his condition: he was now a complete bum.

With no studies and a part-time night job at a 24-hour store, he had lost all hope of continuing to live. No—actually, the only reason he was still there had a first and last name, but the thought disgusted him, so he avoided dwelling on his inexplicable condition. Yes, it was a condition—some strange disease he must have contracted years ago. That had to be it.

He peeled the sheets off his body with both hands and feet, yawning widely as he stretched like a cat—arms forward, knees on the floor. Sleep had slipped through his fingers. A few cracks sounded with the motion, releasing the tension in his shoulders. He wiped his face with the pajama shirt he had been wearing for three days straight, put on his oversized computer glasses, and held his hair back with a headband he had stolen from somewhere. He sat down at the tea table—his makeshift office—facing his computer, and smiled excitedly.

"Let's see, let's see." He stretched his fingers before starting to type, coding his way into the surveillance app he had.

His morning routine had begun.

The image showed Vasiliy's room from a rather odd angle—it had been difficult to find the right way to position the micro-camera he had installed a while ago. He could see the bed, part of the desk, and just a corner of the closet and door. Vasiliy was lying in bed, sleeping peacefully.

"He never disappoints." A smile formed on Junseo's lips as he leaned back in his chair, munching on the leftover chips from the bag he had started the night before.

Fortunately for him, Vasiliy always slept with nothing covering his torso and wore pants that were slightly too big, revealing the waistband of his underwear. He had a tattoo on his upper back, aligned with his nape—a cross, wings, and an inscription in Russian that Junseo didn't quite understand. On his chest, there was a traditional Japanese tattoo of dragons and scales that extended down one of his arms. He also had a rather curious scar on the lower part of his abdomen—like a branding mark of the old Soviet Union's symbol. Junseo had the impression that it wasn't something Vasiliy had chosen voluntarily, but it was hard to tell—he never truly knew what went on in that man's head.

Most of the time, he simply watched him sleep and gave him his privacy—at least in his bedroom. Though he enjoyed observing all that muscle in motion, he didn't want to ruin the sanctity of his body like this. He was sure that one day, he would be able to touch and explore on his own—no matter the cost.

Why did he do all this? Well, there was no real reason. At first, he had excused it as work, but after escaping the hands of his bosses, he no longer knew what justification to give for his guilty pleasure. Maybe it was pathetic—he actually thought about that quite often—but what did it matter? It wasn't important if just another ghost in the world indulged in one of his passions. It wasn't harmful if, even as an invisible being, he experienced mortal fascinations.

Did he like Vasiliy? He wasn't sure—probably because he didn't know the feeling. He knew he liked watching him in silence, and he hated the whores who had the chance to hold him in their arms. But he couldn't imagine himself in a relationship with him or anything cliché like that. He just wanted to devour him slowly—and have fun.

At times, he felt sick because he was ashamed of having such thoughts—each one more depraved than the last. And when he remembered his reality, he wanted to die.

But he had to be grateful—thanks to those twins, he had been able to cut his chains and find a certain sense of freedom. He had begun to experience things he had never even considered before, whether due to lack of time or lack of opportunity—like internet cafés, brothels, disgusting parties, amusement parks, and a few other normal things.

Was he an ordinary person now? Who knew. But at least he had more opportunities to discover himself—from his most horrific side to the most beautiful one.

That night, he would attend a party, so it was time to ditch his homeless look and clean up a little.

Getting money had been difficult after spending the little cash he had taken with him in the first year, but once he started working—and given that his expenses were minimal—he managed to save up a decent amount, especially when combining it with hidden network jobs, questionable work that paid well but never put him at risk as a person.

With that money, he had bought a party suit—not too flashy, but modern enough for the event he was attending.

At eight o'clock that night, a banquet would take place on the outskirts of Tokyo, in a traditional Japanese mansion that bore a strong resemblance to European estates—a perfect blend reflecting its owners: Valentin Kuznetsov and Rei Ryokakku.

The banquet would be attended by many people, mostly foreigners, as product deals would be finalized and new weapon designs would be launched. All that information was displayed on his screen while, out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the surveillance camera—Vasiliy was still asleep.

He looked comfortable, so comfortable that a contagious yawn escaped him. He had no real reason to attend; he just wanted to pretend he had been invited and could fake a simple conversation with him, even though he probably wouldn't be able to get too close. In another time, he might have stressed over learning every single name of the guests and why they were invited, but today, his only concern was his appearance, the clothes, and that little pending matter he still couldn't solve.

Sometimes Junseo thought it might be a good idea to sneak into Alexandra's room, feign madness at her disappearance, and reconcile with her, just to be closer to the family core. But even if, deep down, he missed her a little, he never tried, always ending up avoiding the thought again. What would have become of him if things hadn't been abandoned so abruptly? He imagined pretty scenarios that he knew would never happen because there was nothing normal about them, nor about the dynamics of their relationships. He also wondered if Alexandra still tormented herself over her brother's actions or if, unlike what she was, she had changed to shine on her own and stop reflecting herself in him.

Yes, maybe he missed her much more than he admitted. In a world full of hate, an innocent smile could heal many things, even unknowingly.

—What do you think? Should I try talking to her?—He turned the chair towards the kitchen.

He had acquired another bad habit over the past two years, one he wasn't sure how to excuse.

The woman had no strength to answer him. She was dying of thirst and hunger, her vision was blurry, her body ached, and her vain attempts to marry had irritated the skin on her wrists. She wanted to die. In that moment, she couldn't understand how he, who seemed so normal, could do this. Even though he hadn't touched her, even though he barely spoke to her, even though he tried to keep her clean all the time, perhaps she would have preferred a more merciless and shameful death. She could no longer stand his kindness; if she was going to die, why was he taking care of her? She didn't understand it, didn't comprehend what kind of game he wanted to play. She couldn't remember how he had gotten there, nor did recall having seen him before. She only had the misfortune of waking up handcuffed to the cabinets in that kitchen. He didn't say anything to her either and only spoke to ask meaningless questions like that one.

—Yes, I think I should just avoid it too.—He stood up from the chair and walked to stand in front of her. He gently adjusted her hair, then lift her chin to meet her eyes. —I'm sorry, sweetheart, but our time together ends today. Don't take it personally; I'm not as crazy as I seem. I'm just a bastard who doesn't know what to do with himself.

His words were little more than whispers, delicate and tired, as if honestly conveying what he felt. But she didn't understand. Though she was scared, though she could barely piece his words together, she didn't understand how could someone be so gentle and scary.

—Please, kill me.—Her words came out broken, halting, as dizziness made it hard for her to speak properly.

Her last words were nothing more than a plea for mercy and now she would become his gift.

Entering the banquet was hardly difficult at all; it took him less than half an hour. He had spent much more time getting ready and perfecting his gift. He had scouted the place in advance, as he needed to find the perfect spot to leave the young woman's body. It was also a way of honoring the woman who had sacrificed her life to be his doll. She didn't have a single scratch on her skin; he had dressed her in the necessary clothing, combed and arranged her hair, adorned her body with jewelry, scented her with the same fragrance she wore the day he intercepted her, and painted her nails red—all with purely artistic intentions. This time, he didn't want to create a mess that would need cleaning; he wanted to set up a spectacle that Vasiliy would never forget.

Honestly, he never hated her completely, because he didn't do it out of any kind of resentment, but she did repulse him. It was disgusting to him that someone like her, without dignity or shame, had laid her hands on Vasiliy. He deserved far more than a prostitute from Shibuya. So he happily wanted to clean his reputation, even if Vasiliy would never realize it. But as the years went on, his greed grew a little more and more, and perhaps he just wanted a little, even the smallest, recognition for all the effort in his methodic way of murdering.

The noise of people and the lively mood of the party helped him remain unnoticed. He felt exposed because his hair was short again and his beard had completely vanished, but he compensated the feeling wearing a jester's mask. It was a requirement of assistance; every guest had one, and it also helped avoid attention—his face was well-known, after all. He crossed the room with elegant steps, taking a drink from the waiters' trays to blend in even more. He needed to get to the garden as soon as possible. He had studied the security layout, knew which routes to avoid, but still, his heart didn't stop pounding, deafening him. He was excited, wanted to laugh loudly and go mad. The heat rose in his chest, drunk on fear. He wasn't afraid of being caught; in a way, he wanted it. He wanted to be a little selfish and catch some attention. He wanted to see everyone's eyes snap open from confusion, wanted to be judged and pointed at.

Wasn't today his day to be a fool? The most sensible thing would be to give a grand performance and fill them all with irreparable anguish.